A Lullaby of Frost and Embers
by Meredith Sock
Summary: The Herald of Andraste isn't complaining about her situation. If anything, she's lucky. Without the mark, her eyes would reflect nothing, her voice would sound monotone, she would still be a Tranquil. That Qunari never truly believed he could fit anywhere outside of the Qun until he is forced to become Tal-Vashoth. Luckily, the Inquisition will prove him wrong.
1. Chapter 1

I will not apologise for that title.

That said, please be forgiving if some of my sentences are strange, this is my first multi-chapter fic in English. If you notice recurring mistakes and such, don't hesitate to point them out, I'm always eager to learn.

Anyway, have fun!

* * *

No matter how hard I try to recall those last weeks, they only come back to me in flashes, blurred by too many emotions. And a lot of green. So much green. All tainted with the conviction that this hurricane of feelings would never come to a stop.

But it has stopped. Or it has become bearable. Bearable most of the time.

In Val Royaux, it was unbearable. In my defence, templars surrounded us, yelled at us, hit a Chantry mother and yelled some more. Of course I exploded and electrified a few spectators, what else did they expect? I fail to see how those Orlesians' inability to handle a bit of magic is my responsibility. Some of them looked better with their hair standing up anyway.

Happily, there aren't any nobles wandering the Storm Coast, only criminals whose death won't anger anyone, and a band of mercenaries who care about being hired, not about my manners. We meet the Bull's Chargers on the slippery stones of the beach, in the middle of a fight with some of the aforementioned criminals.

Iron Bull is easy to identify among his men. "The horns usually give it away," he shrugs when I approach him after the fight. To my surprise, there are no other Qunari in his company. To my bigger surprise, he quickly reveals that he is a spy at the service of the Qun, which answers my first question but brings up a few new ones.

"Why would you tell me that?" I inquire, with my arms crossed and a raised eyebrow.

"Whatever happened at that Conclave thing, it's bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. So whatever I am, I'm on your side."

"Certainly, but you have to admit it's unconventional."

"If your spymaster's half-decent, I'd've been tipped sooner or later. Better you hear it right up from me."

This is strange, but he is an impressive fighter who didn't mention or even look at that accursed sun shaped scar on my forehead–and if he did I didn't notice. I may not know much about the Qunari, but the first one I ever interact with seems pretty decent and manages to appear non-threatening despite towering a few heads over me.

As we go back to the main camp for the night, a scout rushes towards us. He quickly tells me that the men have found a second Qunari on the coast, this one unconscious, and left him in our healers' care. Then he bows and runs away.

"Any chance you might know him?" I ask Iron Bull as we make our way to the healers' tent.

"About as many chances as you knowing the next elf we find unconscious on the beach." I blush and apologise profusely for that ridiculous question but thankfully he is far too forgiving. "Don't worry boss. You never know, I've met a few Tal-Vashoth since I began working in the south, maybe I'll recognise him."

As expected, we find the new Qunari under the care of a Chantry sister. I notice the horns first, they grow almost vertically and form an open oval, unlike the hard angles and the flat lines on Iron Bull's head. Strands of wet black hair stick to the bruises on his dark grey cheekbones, and a short goatee sprouts from his chin.

"Shit…" Iron Bull's eye widens when he sees the sleeping face. "I actually know him. Is he gonna be all right?"

The healer assures him that the wounds may be numerous but his life isn't in danger. We join Solas and Varric outside while I try to come up with a question that won't embarrass me. Happily, I don't have to.

"You're gonna read my reports anyway, so…" he growls and massages his neck. "He's a Ben-Hassrath too. And he's going to kick my ass when he learns that I told you that."

While we fill our bowls with the stew that's bubbling on the fire, he informs me and the rest of the party that this new Qunari has fought under his orders for years, and that they trained and even grew up together before that. This speech about Hissrad, Seheron, Par Vollen, Tamassrans and other exotic names ignites my curiosity. Sadly, we finish our meal quickly, and today's fighting has drained me, my yawns keep interrupting the conversation.

I make sure that Solas has already gone to sleep before I dare slip into my bedroll. Resisting demons is getting easier night after night, but I still need help against the stronger ones. Can't stop the Breach from swallowing Thedas if I fall prey to possession now.

The mark produces the most vivid dreams I've ever had, which could be enjoyable if a third of them weren't terrifying nightmares. Just like the one I land in as soon as I close my eyes. Tonight, it's the templars and the brand, because of course it is. I know it's fake, an image conjured from my memories and fears, strengthened by a demon probably, but the dusty smell of the tower, the heat of the torches, the feeling of suppressed magic, the gloved hands gripping my arms, the circle of armours surrounding me and their shadows stretching along the walls, they all seem far, far too real.

I close my eyes and lower my head. It always feels like it will last forever, but it never does. If I can simply hang onto that thought the night will eventually come to an end. I ignore the voice commanding me to open my eyes, pray to the Maker, and hope.

A new hand, larger and bonier than the templars', grabs my shoulder from behind. Another lifts my chin, too strong to resist. Despite myself, I open my eyes. The brand is right here, too close, as bright as a blue sun.

_With more power, you could be free. _

I whimper. The fingers around my arms are painfully tight.

_I can give you that power. No templar will ever touch you again._

No. I can't listen. Under no circumstances. But the brand is getting closer, already burning my skin.

_Your nights will be peaceful, I can protect you fro-_

The blinding sun disappears from my sight, shoved to the side by someone tall. Before I can even open my mouth, my saviour has shot a cone of ice right over my head. I look over my shoulder to see a fear demon shrieking in pain. A winter's grasp freezes it in a dramatic pose that could be almost funny in other circumstances, then it vanishes in a white and green mist. When I look back at the templars, they are gone, and so is whoever saved me.

A few seconds later, Solas rushes to my side. "Forgive me, I couldn't stop that demon before it entered your dream," he says, breathless but smiling, "however, I am glad to see that you vanquished it by yourself."

"I didn't." My heartbeat comes back to normal as I inspect the room in search of the mysterious mage. "Someone else killed it."

We spend a few minutes speculating on the identity of this stranger. Neither of us knows a mage who resembles what I glimpsed of them, which doesn't stop us from theorising. Our fruitless debate ends when morning arises, only for another one to replace it when everyone is awake.

Solas and Iron Bull argue so loudly about the Qun that, five minutes into breakfast, the whole party is forced to have an opinion on the subject. I barely have the time to think that they're becoming annoying, when my patience reaches its limit. Suddenly, I want nothing more than for them to cease this pointless bickering, because that's not why we're here and they're certainly not changing each other's mind any time soon so why in the name of the Maker would they impose their childishness to people who simply want to eat quietly?

And then I blink, and realise that I just said all that out loud and am now standing, arms raised, panting, vibrating. The breakfast stew isn't bubbling on the fire anymore, but scattered on everyone's feet instead, mixed with embers and blackened chunks of wood. Everyone is looking at me with eyes ranging from round to very round. Happily, nobody seems wounded, thanks to Solas' reflexes and the strength of his barriers. He and Iron Bull decide to travel out of each other's earshot on the way back to Haven, but I still make a mental note to never bring them together with me on our future missions.

Nothing noteworthy happens on the first day, partly because everyone treats me like a leaking oil barrel waiting for a spark. On the second however, the weather clears while we're riding alongside the Waking Sea Bannorn. The archipelago peeks out of the fog, I can even distinguish the islet where I was locked up for most of my life. Despite everyone's caution, I explode three times before we decide to stop for the evening.

That night, I find myself in a dream I haven't had in years, most definitely caused by our proximity to Jainen's Circle. Templars surround me here, too, but now my magic crepitates freely. They tremble, their blades, shields and armours cracked and useless. Behind them, an angry sea reflects the fire which has engulfed the tower. The thick rain evaporates when it hits the blaze, powerless to extinguish it. No locks, no walls, nothing holds me back on that island, nothing but a handful of scared humans.

Oh, well, there's nothing wrong with a little power fantasy, is there? The more emotions I evacuate in here, the less danger the real world is in. Everybody wins. If there's any doubt left in me, it vanishes as soon as I recognise a face among the templars.

The wind and heat gain in intensity, they seem to lift my arms, and one by one the humans fall to my spells, powerless. Each scream widens my smile a little more, increases my power as well as their suffering. My blood boils, a red veil covers my eyes. But I make sure to keep _him_ for last.

When his turn comes, I am shaking with anticipation. The pathetic dog tries to crawl back to the sea, less terrified by the raging storm than by my fury. As he should be. I summon a wall of flames to cut his escape then slowly catch up to him. Tears gather in his beady little eyes, stain his bony face, roll around his cocky, turned-up nose and get caught in the patches of hair he calls a beard.

He never appeared in that dream before. In others, yes, but now I'm the one in charge. A welcome change, if you ask me. A snap of my fingers would reduce him to a pile of ash, or I could slowly freeze him, beginning with his hands and feet, or simply break him bit by bit, fingers first, and second…

_Yes! Hurt him, burn him, kill_ _him!_

That disembodied voice doesn't alarm me, quite the contrary. It pushes me forwards, makes my chest swell and my ears buzz. I know I've never heard it before, yet it sounds familiar, like it erupts from my own mouth.

_Do it! Do it! Do it! He deserves it! He asked for it! DO IT!_

That's all it takes for my magic to flow. His limbs twist, his eyes bulge, ice and fire devour his skin inch by inch. Every breath coats my lungs with pain, his pain, delicious, exhilarating pain. Each instant of this torture brings me halfway closer to what must be perfect bliss. If I can make it last just one or two more minutes, I might be satiated for a few weeks, maybe even months, no more risking innocent lives with my temper.

But he dies.

That was too early, far too early, he didn't suffer enough. I stomp and stomp the charred pile of flesh, to no avail. With no satisfying way to express it, my anger builds up again. It feels like the skin of my back is peeling off under the heat.

_We can hunt him! Find him! Hurt him! The real him! And all the ones like him! They deserve it! _We_ deserve it!_

Images of dying templars flash before my eyes, the heat spreads through my chest, the orange glow of the fire strengthens. But then the voice isn't floating anymore, it sits right here, on my shoulder, and it begs frantically.

_Let me come with you! Let me burn them! Let me feast on your rage!_

The glow covers my arms, thicker than a second skin. I realise far too late what's really happening. I have no idea how to calm down, and at this point I don't ever want to. The Inquisition needs me to save Thedas, if that doesn't give me the right to punish one man for his crimes–with a little bit of help from a demon–why even bother closing the Breach?

All I need is to wake up, track every remaining templar and massacre them until the world is rid of their stench. Nothing could be easier. If I simply… open my eyes… Why can't I open my eyes? I do it every day, it should be completely effortless! But there's this mist that I notice only now, cold and numbing, seeping through my robes, so thick I can barely see one step in front of me.

The demon shivers against my skin and fights the sudden chill by pulling me toward the burning tower, the only thing still visible. My foot lifts itself off the ground to regain its place an instant later. Another pull from the opposite direction keeps me immobile, hesitant. The demon speaks, but his words are too sluggish to understand. This plan of wandering aimlessly and killing whoever wears the wrong armour seems exhausting now, and so very futile.

A tall shadow appears in the mist. I attempt to follow it with my eyes, but my whole body stays frozen. It moves around me in absolute silence and disappears as quickly as it came.

"You're not too far gone yet," says a masculine voice, probably the mage from the other night, "stop it now and you'll feel better." A sizzling sound answers this advice and the demon's grasp tightens around me. "If you follow me, I'll help you find a proper meal, I promise."

My lethargic mind fails to make sense of this exchange, but it probably doesn't matter. Whatever they mean, this man's words appease the fire in my gut and, all of a sudden, a weight falls off my shoulders. My relief is as intense as it is short. The cold pierces my skin so violently I am thrown to my knees. By the time I reach the ground, a layer of ice has already hardened my clothes and hair.

And just like that, the fog clears. The storm has weakened, and so has the fire, leaving nothing but a drizzle on smoking ruins. No more bodies lying in the dirt, no more bloodstains, only footsteps getting closer, someone calling my name. Solas appears like he did after my last nightmare. While he makes sure I am unharmed, I attempt to explain what happened. But I choke. Only now do I feel the tears streaming down my cheeks, and this exhaustion that grows and grows and slowly swallows my whole body.


	2. Chapter 2

The Fade is cold today. Probably the fault of that mark on the Herald's hand. This thing pulsates with a magic more powerful than any I've ever felt before, strong enough to temporarily weaken the Veil everywhere it passes. Spirits and demons follow its light restlessly, some from a good distance, others clinging to it, all gathered around it like travellers around a warm fire. They reenact her memories almost as quickly as she's living them, from every possible angle. It's like staring at the physical world through windows, or lenses. Sad, dirty lenses.

In hindsight, pulling on her sorrow might have been a mistake. Yes, that spirit of anger was about to push her too far and hurt itself in the process, but looking at how she now struggles with the simplest tasks, bursts into tears at the tiniest inconvenience and lies down, exhausted, after each effort, I am beginning to feel a tinge of guilt. She's better off depressed than possessed, no doubt about that, however she may not be able to repair the sky in that state.

Why do I care anyway? I don't plan on returning to my body. Admitting that my spirit won't disappear with my flesh, wandering the Fade forever is a more tempting option than being hunted by the Ben-Hassrath.

Not that I have time to think about it. Some dancing wisps suddenly change their course to converge to a new source of entertainment. I hide behind the closest rock to peek at it safely. It's that bald elf, Solas if I heard right, and he's looking for something. For me, most likely. It's the third time today that he visits the Fade, which honestly begins to annoy me. I would do the same in his place, but still…

Happily, the Herald falls asleep soon after him. When her mind leaves the waking world, the light of the mark flickers once or twice, then grows, and grows, and engulfs everything around it. Sounds, smells and colours take shape in its heart, they dance and mix and create scenes more vivid than life itself. This, I must admit, is a sight I could never get tired of.

Solas immediately raises wards against which spirits and demons come crashing, impatient to taste the Herald's emotions at their source. I enter the dream before he covers it entirely with his barriers and rush toward its centre. The deeper I go, the more precise every image becomes, and soon I find myself between rows of bookshelves.

My steps don't make a noise as I walk through the gloomy library. An eerie, greenish glow comes from nowhere, throws undefined shadows in every direction and lightens random patches of mist. The temperature drops until I find a lonely desk in a room with no walls, only more books. Under it, a tiny, curled up elf, half hidden by the long black hair cascading on her shoulders and knees, trembles silently.

At a safe distance, I sit cross-legged, rest my back against a bookshelf, close my eyes and begin my search for a bit of hope, of happiness, any hint of glee that she might have felt around that desk or in the library that inspired this dream. It's harder than last night, she has, unsurprisingly, experienced a lot more sorrow than joy.

Patiently, I uncover a bit of comfort tucked in the pages of a history book, the simple pleasure of learning a new fact. That should be enough. Now, all I have to do is pull it to the surface and use its warmth to melt the shell I accidentally built around her. Easier said than done. A mere touch causes it to burst with euphoria, breaking my focus.

I blink, repress a fit of laughter, grunt and close my eyes again. It takes many attempts of this kind to bring that bundle of joy where I want it to be, but my efforts bear their fruits. Half chuckling and overly satisfied by the soft vermillion that replaced the greenish glow of the dream, I stretch my legs, stand up and glance at the desk. The Herald isn't holding her knees anymore, sitting instead next to the furniture, legs sprawled over scattered papers.

Hunched over the book I found in her memory, she frantically takes notes on a piece of parchment and licks her lips without caring about the ink that stains her hands, sleeves, and even her face. Too bad I can't stay to examine this dream, this much detail is simply surreal, but it would be too risky. Still smirking, I turn around, ready to make my exit.

"Fascinating."

My palms whistle, ice magic already aimed in front of me, but I lower them when I recognise Solas. Like a fool, I didn't expect him to enter the dream without the threat of a demon. Now I can't even pretend I got in the Fade because of some random blood mage or ritual, he saw too much.

"Herald," he calls while his pupils pierce mine with as much caution as curiosity, "I may have found the mage who drove the demons away."

I hear paper crinkle, then hurried footsteps, as I turn just enough to meet her gaze when she arrives. While every existing shade of surprise passes on her face, I still try to find an escape, only to sigh in resignation when her questions start pouring. Am I the Qunari from the beach? Did I really save her twice already? And is her current state of giddiness my doing? I nod.

Her small frame knocks the wind out of me when she throws herself against my ribs. I barely hear her thanking me, too busy processing the tightness of her hug. I remain frozen until she lets go, and before I can regain my balance Solas begins his own interrogation.

"The Iron Bull called you a Ben-Hassrath, however Qunari mages do not usually wander freely."

"They don't," I confirm, rubbing my side.

"Why do you?"

"I kept my magic hidden."

He squints slightly and attempts to speak again, but the Herald chirps in, "You'll need transport when you wake up, won't you? Haven is not the best place for that. I can ask the healer how long it'll take for you to be able to travel, if it isn't too long we can stay in the closest city or village until–"

"I'm not going to wake up."

She details my face, a hesitant smile on her full lips. "What?"

"I kept my magic hidden only until a few hours before your men found me. If I wake up, I won't have anywhere to go back to, so I might as well stay asleep." Her already huge black eyes widen even more at this confession.

Solas quickly fills her silence. "Then why help us? It seems like a great amount of efforts for someone who plans to die."

"You're the only one who can close the Breach, right?" I ask the Herald, who acquiesces slowly, mouth still agape. "Well, it threatens everyone, including spirits. I've seen too many of them get sucked through rifts and lose themselves." It's Solas' turn to stare in disbelief, except the muscles around his brows relax instead of wrinkling in worry like hers.

"Join the Inquisition!" she exclaims, startling me and the other elf.

I can't repress a smirk, "You hired a Ben-Hassrath." Not just any Ben-Hassrath, but the closest thing I've had to a friend outside of the Fade these past twenty years or so. "That's dangerous."

"We'll order him to leave."

"They'd send someone I can't recognise to replace him. That's even more dangerous. And I don't want his mission to fail because of me anyway."

"Then I'll put Leliana personally in charge of your safety! I don't care what it takes, you're coming back with us!"

I don't think I heard that name before, but the message isn't any less clear. Her insistence to see me live is… not unpleasant, I have to admit that. However, my stubbornness forces me to refuse again. That doesn't discourage them one bit.

"Your help would be welcome in the waking world as well," says Solas, "and honing your magical skills there could deepen your understanding of the Fade more than you expect."

"I'm not letting go until you wake up," she adds, grabbing my wrist with both of her tiny hands.

The contact of her skin against mine petrifies me again, yet the determined fire in her eyes makes me want to believe that it'll all work out. I relax slightly. Hissrad might even not be ordered to kill me, just keep an eye on me, at least for a while. I'd rather not fight him, but I knew from the start that my choices could lead me into this type of mess.

Once it is decided that I'll break the news to Hissrad myself, I find my way out of the Fade. It takes me a while to truly wake up, and even as I discover the tent I've been installed in, flying rocks linger over my vision. My arms scream in agony when I lift them to rub my eyes, imitated by my ribs and pretty much every bone in my body.

The healer squeaks when she sees me moving, but regains her composure and brings me some water with shaky hands. Her attitude doesn't faze me, I can understand being scared of the horns and everything that goes with them. Before leaving, she shyly orders me to stay in bed, so of course, as soon as she's gone, I find my clothes, get dressed and head outside.

The morning chill bites me mercilessly, chasing every trace of the Fade out of my eyes. That's surprising, I usually handle the cold well, but it's true that I'm not too used to the fereldan weather. Half of the camp is already packed up, ready to depart. To the east, behind a few scattered trees, a large body of water shines softly under the sun–lake Calenhad if I trust my sense of directions–and on the other side, mountains as far as I can see.

When I spot Hissrad, he is putting crates and folded tents on a carriage, helped by a group of much shorter people. The instant he notices me, he dumps the package he is holding on the closest human, who almost tumbles over. He runs up to me with a smile that's slightly too bright and slaps my shoulder, making me yelp in pain. After a quick but sincere apology, he puts his smile back on.

"It's good to see you on your feet. You even managed to grow some hair, huh?" he laughs, rubbing his chin. "It suits you."

As I massage my shoulder, I can't help but chuckle, "It's good to see you, too. Or most of you. What happened to your eye?" And just like that, I'm lying again. Well, not completely lying. I _am_ glad to see him while he's still looking at me like I'm a person.

A grunt. "I wasn't careful, didn't see the flail coming. There isn't much to say about it."

There is definitely more to say about it, but I suppose I won't have time to uncover it right now. Or ever. If I insist, I'll fall back into the role of Hissrad and forget what position I'm actually in. A glance at the large handle behind his shoulder reminds me of my priorities.

"You already sent a report saying that the Inquisition found me, right?" He nods, losing his smile again. "Can you put your axe down for a minute? I gotta talk to you."

I expected suspicion, but his eyebrow curls upwards. "You already found something to criticise me about?" he growls, hiding almost perfectly the pained note in his voice. "I know I don't have the best reputation among the Ben-Hassrath, but you know me better than that, I wouldn't kill–"

"I'm the one who fucked up, and I'll understand if you want to kill me after my explanations but I'd prefer being punched than cut in half though." I blurt that out far too quickly, but considering the metaphorical gaatlok bomb I'm about to hit him with, it doesn't really matter.

He eyes me carefully before walking back to the man he gave his burden to and does the same with the axe, exchanging a couple of words with him this time. By the time he comes back, we are both stone-faced, ready to face the bad news, more or less.

"Talk."

For an instant, it feels like I'm back in Seheron, in front of my team leader, about to unfold the report of a disastrous operation. I open my mouth and realise that I am, in fact, not ready at all for that conversation, so I close it right away. Maybe if I craft the right excuse…

No, the faster I do it, the better, no matter how lightheaded I feel. More words–more lies–would only deepen his mistrust, so I breathe slowly through my nose and raise my hand, palm facing upwards. I detect a hint of alarm on his face when he sees how shaky my fingers are. After a last gulp, I hold my breath and push the magic out. The effort empties me of the little bit of energy I still had, but it's still easier than formulating sentences.

"Shit!" And here it is, the fear, which will soon distort itself into disgust, maybe anger, hopefully not pity, so I close my fist and lower it, ready to dodge the punches. "How long have you had…? Have you been…?" I was wrong, that's not anger, that's confusion. Which confuses me.

"You want me to speak?"

"Of course! Now talk! How long?"

Head spinning, I trip on my words, but they eventually come out. "Since I was fourteen." My throat is so dry it hurts, I hope he doesn't have too many questions.

"Fourteen?" He rubs his neck and looks at me, then through me as he probably relives all the instants we spent together, searching for all the clues he missed. "That explains so many things." I wouldn't call his expression relieved, but he has always enjoyed finding answers. "I have a lot of questions, but I'll keep them for when you're rid of that fever."

"Fever?" I croak, suddenly conscious of the cold sweats and shivers rolling on my skin. "Oh."

"You're as oblivious as ever." That must be the absolute saddest chuckle I've ever heard in my life. "Go back to the healer," he adds, turning his back to me, "I won't get my answers if you die now."

I watch him leave, speechless, head spinning faster and faster. That can't be it. Why didn't he punch me? Or shout at the very least? Now I'm the one who needs answers, so I take a step forward to follow him. A terrible idea. My knees buckle, I land face first in the grass.

"Come on! I told you to _not_ die now!" is the last thing I hear before the Fade embraces me.


	3. Chapter 3

"Let me recapitulate: you used magic during six of our fights against the Vints, nine times against the fog warriors, seven against the Tal-Vashoth, but not during the one with the monkeys?"

"No, that was the monkeys' fault."

"What's a monkey?" I ask the two Qunari, who have been reminiscing over a pint for the past hour.

Iron Bull rubs his chin pensively. "They look like small humans covered in fur."

"With long limbs and a tail," adds the other, "and they shriek a lot."

There's an image.

"Anyway, boss, did you need anything?"

I almost jump from my chair when I remember what brought me here before their stories distracted me. "There's a problem that needs to be taken care of." I frown and point at the mage. "You don't have a name."

He blinks and looks at me blankly for a few seconds. "Didn't think I'd need one."

"Well, you do, so what do you want to be called?"

He rests his cheek on his hand and stares at the tavern's wall. Iron Bull leans back on his seat, arms crossed. Neither of them speaks until I offer my own suggestions.

"Jendrik? Wesley?"

"Too human."

"Tannyll? Lysanthir? Elaith?"

"Too elven."

Before I can list dwarven names, an actual dwarf sits next to me. "Trying to remember someone?" whistles Varric as he puts his drink, then his elbows on the table.

Once I've explained what this is all about, his eyes light up. His enthusiasm doesn't worry me at first, but twenty ridiculous ideas later, I am beginning to regret inviting him. It only worsens when Sera joins in. If it wasn't for the positive thoughts the Qunari has been forcing into my brain while his fever kept him unconscious, I would have exploded a while ago. I am almost happy to see a human face when Blackwall brings his beard to the table, and with it a few real names. Not that the Qunari finds any of them appealing.

"I'm not a Warden."

"That doesn't mean you can't be called like one of them, but I suppose Corin and Garahel are also out of the question."

The Qunari nods slowly, pupils focused on an empty corner of the tavern.

"I have an idea!" cackles Sera, her ears twitching with too much satisfaction.

"If he didn't like Horny five minutes ago, I'm pretty sure he still doesn't like it now, Buttercup."

"Better than pulling whatever words from your arse, like Happy, Smiley and Sunshine."

"Sunshine's already taken anyway," mutters Varric, dismissing her remark with a wave of the wrist, "and I get it, no ironic names. Blue, then? What about Broody?"

Silence. We stare at the nameless Qunari, who seems lost in a daydream. Iron Bull snaps his fingers in front of him, but receives no reaction. Before I can ask what's wrong, he gets up and a deafening slap resonates through the room. Holding the back of his head, the Qunari spits out a string of angry words in a language I've never heard, then glares at Iron Bull who regains his chair without any show of guilt.

"That was unnecessary!"

"You know it wasn't," he retorts calmly, "never been able to wake you up with anything less. By the way, I forgot to ask earlier, does it happen because of the magic?"

He nods, still rubbing his skull. However, the teacher in me refuses to let this matter end on such a simplistic answer. Enough books have been written on this particular subject, and I've read most, if not all of them.

"It doesn't simply happen _because of the magic_, it's because you're a Dreamer. Most mages can't explore the Fade without using lyrium."

"I'm aware," he hisses like I just insulted him, "I hoped he couldn't tell the difference."

Despite my confusion, I try to apologise, but Iron Bull intervenes, "What does it change? It's not like there's a special protocol for Dreamers."

"Actually, there is." He empties his pint, puts it down and exhales. His face goes back to its inexpressive state, ice-blue eyes seemingly lost in the Fade. "It was used for the last time more than two Ages ago, so only a few specialised Ben-Hassrath know about it. Dreamers are to be captured alive and handed to the reeducators."

"How is that worse than being killed? I know reeducation isn't–"

"Dreamers are to be handed to the reeducators, not only as _patients_–" his lips twitch– "but as tools."

"Bullshit!" The whole table jumps in surprise. "That's too dangerous."

"Only if the risk isn't worth the reward." After a glance at the bottom of his mug, he stands up. "I need a nap."

It's my turn to startle everyone when I hit the table with both of my palms. "You are not leaving this tavern without a name that I can write in my reports." He attempts to argue, but I heard enough templar knights reprimand their subordinates to adopt the proper attitude. "This is a direct order from your superior. Sit down."

His shoulders sag a little, then he falls back on his chair, arms-crossed. Varric doesn't waste a second to suggest Dreamer, only to be met with another refusal. Fade Walker has the same success. Sera declares this exchange boring and leaves after an eighth Horny is rejected, while Blackwall, more polite, excuses himself to go to the training grounds. I'm not criticising, my ideas don't earn any more approval than theirs, always being too this, or too that–probably not Qunari enough. For a few minutes I remain lost in thoughts, digging through the countless tomes I read in Jainen's library.

A second slap hits the Qunari. He insults Iron Bull, even threatens to punch him, before his traits relax into that air of absence that's growing more and more unnerving the longer I look at it. Despite that, it takes only a short few minutes for him to drift off once more. It's probably my temper speaking, but a part of me is pretty sure that he does it on purpose, or at least that he's not trying very hard to prevent it.

"You fucking _qalaba_!" he spits after the third slap. Almost bringing his threat into action, he raises his fist, ready to strike, only to lower it with a sigh.

"If you enjoy getting hurt that much, you could simply ask," laughs Iron Bull, massaging his palm with his thumb.

"And you," I groan, squinting, "could participate in an other way than beating him up. You know him better than anyone here so you must have thought of something."

The laughter morphs into a grunt. "Not sure I can come up with anything he'll like but… Meraad?"

"You didn't come up with it, that was my undercover name."

Another grunt. "Asaara?"

"That's what Tama called me."

"Well, yeah, what's the problem?"

"That's what _Tama_ called me." His brow furrows ever so slightly.

"Touchy. Maraas?"

"Worse than Broody." Varric takes offence to that remark, but not long enough to forget the little notebook he's been scribbling in for most of the conversation. "Are you even trying?"

"He's trying harder than you," I spit with a sudden animosity.

The centre of the table bursts into flames. Without missing a beat, the Qunari extinguishes it under a crude layer of ice and snowflakes. He looks at me, still infuriatingly impassive.

"I got nothing, never been good at naming things."

That doesn't calm me down much. A flame slightly smaller than the previous one appears in front of me. I promptly crush it with my hand, careful to maintain eye contact. If he keeps up with that attitude I'm really going to–

"Your people like dragons, right?"

Both pairs of horns turn toward Varric and nod at the same time. That definitely got their attention, as well as mine, distracting me from my anger. It even gives me an idea.

"How about Hivernal? It's a type of dragon that breathes ice, and you're quite proficient with ice magic."

Instead of rejecting it right away, he tilts his head to the right. "If it wasn't so orlesian…"

"You're impossible to please!" Another flame blooms, immediately covered by Iron Bull's mug.

"Ice, huh? I used to call you Vattic–" he carefully lifts the mug to inspect the smoking wood– "but the _vat_ doesn't fit anymore." A nod confirms this. "Guess Tic all by itself doesn't work either."

"Actually, it does." He stands up and turns to the door.

"Wait a minute!" My chair falls as I jump on my feet, one finger pointed at him. "That's…" I lower my hand. "Tic? That's it?"

He nods. "I'm going to bed. Good night."

"It's noon!" But he's gone. I pick up my chair and mutter, "Vattic sounds more like a real name than Tic alone, why doesn't it fit?"

"_Vat_ means fire and _tic_ means cold, the magical type. When we were kids, he spent a third of his time alone and silent, and a third punching everything in sight. He's got the punching part under control now."

"What about the last third?"

"Fevers."

I am oddly unsatisfied by that conclusion, but I obtained what I came for. Varric goes back to his own affairs, Iron Bull to his men, and I pull a list of tasks from my pocket. Not even half of them are done, I still have to make sure that the quartermaster and alchemist are well supplied, and that the smith knows how many recruits need each types of armours and weapons.

Then Cassandra wants to discuss our next mission, most likely hoping that I have changed my mind about contacting the rebel mages to help us close the Breach, and I absolutely, under any circumstances, cannot forget to meet Josephine before tonight's dinner. Noble etiquette is the most ridiculous thing ever created, but I sense I will be confronted to it many times these upcoming months. She spent hours elaborating lessons to prepare me for those encounters, and I know how much work she is already burdened with, I am not about to waste her time.

Today is full, but I must make time with Solas as soon as I can, he did offer to reignite my few memories of the elven language. Maybe one of those nights, although not this one, I promised Tic he'd get to look at my dreams from up close as much as he'd like. Now that I think about it, I could study with Solas while Tic explores at his pace, after all he enjoys being by himself.

In spite of my careful planning, nothing goes right. Everyone needs more supplies, miscommunication has us short on boots, I spend the time allocated to Cassandra convincing Leliana to spare someone's life instead, and arriving late to my lesson isn't even the end of it. Josephine's exceedingly polite attitude makes me feel more guilty, but her intensive teaching has the benefit of distracting me from everything else, at least for a little while.

However, Cassandra all but pounces on me the instant I get out of the Ambassador's office, and not only was I right about her motivations, she also brought Cullen with her. A grave mistake. Before she can pronounce two sentences, I end the conversation by setting a nearby barrel on fire, maybe not completely by accident.

Sleeping does improve my mood, but only after a rage demon attempts to possess me, forcing Solas and Tic to band together to fight it off. Which of course ruins tonight's program. When morning comes, I haven't learnt a single elven word and Tic, too busy managing my emotions for me, hasn't had a minute to look around properly.

I can't waste time regretting time I've already wasted. As soon as preparations are complete, we leave for Redcliffe. Nothing unusual happens for most of the day, even the ambush that interrupts our journey is somewhat expected. Tic's fighting style does intrigue me however, which I let him know as soon as we've recovered from the skirmish.

"You didn't use magic."

"Didn't need to."

It is hard to argue. The way he held his two swords and cut through those bandits seemed perfectly effortless. There are always improvements to be made however.

"You could have hit a few of them from afar instead of letting them all come so close."

"Better to save my energy, magic in the physical world is more tiring than in the Fade."

"I don't really feel a difference."

"I do." It takes a bit of prodding for him to elaborate, and it isn't even satisfying. "Don't know how to explain it."

All I get out of him is that his body isn't used to it. That settles it. When we're back in Haven, I'll organise training sessions for him. If I don't find the time to do it myself, Solas will, and if he's too busy there will most likely be a mage or two among the rebels who won't mind lending a hand. We are going to recruit them after all. Would every other option fail, I'll order Vivienne to take care of it under the threat of sending her back to Val Royaux. Whatever happens, I will ensure that he can explore his abilities to their full extent, anything less would be a waste.

And like that, I add another line to my to-do list.


	4. Chapter 4

"I would have suggested Shartan."

My eyes and fingers detach themselves from the tree that stands at the centre of the dream and I look at the two mages sitting between its roots. "I told the Herald, I'm not an elf."

"And I told you to stop calling me Herald in private," she pouts, scrunching her round nose and sending a pulse of annoyance through the empty alienage, "there's no one to impress here."

I shrug, "I told Norilanni, I'm not an elf."

"We already spent enough time talking about that anyway," she declares before Solas adds anything, "I wouldn't have gone for Tic myself, but that's your choice."

"Still," he insists as soon as she finishes her sentence, "I am surprised to see you remain so calm despite Iron Bull's presence."

Arms crossed, I shrug again, "He's not threatening my life yet."

He concedes with a nod, then goes back to their lesson. Elven words fill the background as I wander away to inspect geometrical drawings of birds on a white wall. I don't have to bend my knees at all to touch them, everything is tall, seen by a child's eye. After all, her memories of this alienage are almost as old as she is.

My thumb grazes over an owl's wing, spreading red and blue chalk over the stone. I rub my fingers together to test the dusty texture, inhale the dry smell, even lick some with the tip of my tongue. If it wasn't for the size of the houses, I would question if I was truly asleep. This is simply too real.

I wonder how much I can transform it. Focused on the smeared feathers, I wave my hand and restore them to their original state. A glance behind indicates that the Herald hasn't noticed my interaction. Concentration makes me squint as I break the birds in pieces to reshape them into one larger creature. The blue lines turns into a fine neck, elegant wings, a long tail and a strong chest filled with the red breath that comes out of its sharp maw. Taking a step back to admire my creation, I can't stop myself from licking my lips.

"Ataashi!"

The Herald covers her mouth with both of her hands, blabbers something that resembles an apology, then notices the drawing. An instant later, she is standing next to me. This turns into a demonstration of my abilities, beginning with more drawings.

"Do a wolf! Now a druffalo!" She pulls on my arm with every demand. Her childlike enthusiasm is almost contagious, I even catch myself smirking. "Oh! I know! Do a monkey!" She lets go of me to detail the picture, nodding slightly. "So that's what they look like."

That gives me an idea. While her attention is focused on the wall, I lift my arm and awaken memories of tiny hands trying to steal my food, clothes and knives. From the corner of my eye, I notice Solas tilting his head as a long tail curls around my wrist.

Satisfied, I whistle, "Better than a drawing."

The Herald squeaks in delight when she sees the lifelike monkey climb up my shoulder, then hang from my horns. I make it jump on her head, earning myself another squeak. As she's playing with it, petting its fur and trying to keep it from pulling on her hair, Solas comes to my side.

"How did you learn to control your magic? I doubt you met many teachers while living under the Qun."

"Spirits taught me the basics."

"As I suspected."

He shares his own knowledge of the Fade, strangely similar to mine. Strangely comforting. As we speak, I realise that a genuine smile is pushing my cheeks upward, unplanned, but not unwanted. Sharing all of this with people who aren't spirits, that's… a new feeling. I imagined many lives outside of the Qun, most resulting in a quick death, some foolishly optimistic, but definitely nothing like that.

To be fair, if you asked anyone in the Inquisition how they envisioned their future a few months ago, I'm pretty sure none of them would describe anything resembling that. Still, out of us all–except maybe for the Herald herself–I must be in the strangest position. Nobody else has seemingly innocent chats with one of their mortal enemies who also happens to be their childhood friend. Chats, like the one I have the next day, on the way to Redcliffe.

"So it wasn't a coincidence that my nightmares got worse after you left Seheron."

Hissrad keeps interrogating me far too casually as we travel through the Hinterlands. I shouldn't complain, this is better than the "Shut up!" and "Die, Saarebas!" I expected, but I wonder where the facade stops and the real him begins. He's always been soft-hearted, which only makes differentiating the two more complicated.

Even if I could spend the whole day focusing on nothing but him, I wouldn't find that limit, and I definitely do not have the whole day. As we approach the gates of Redcliffe, the tips of my ears tickle, then a wave of magical energy crashes against my skin, covering it in goosebumps. For an instant, it feels like I'm bathing in the Fade itself. One big difference is that painful stretching sensation pulling on every fiber in my body, like a rag swelling with water, instead of the cocoon of pure bliss I am usually greeted with.

"Prepare yourselves, I sense a rift nearby," the Herald warns us, waving her glowing hand in the air.

As uncomfortable as it is, I am curious to see a rift with my own eyes from this side of the Veil. Every physical being has their own memory of them, with different colours, smells, sounds and demons coming through. From the Fade they look like ordinary doors or portals at first, but getting close enough to study them means getting close enough to be swallowed, which almost happened to me the one and only time I attempted the experiment.

Turns out, there isn't any time to inspect the thing from this side either. Staying alive against the swarms of confused wisps and spirits pouring from it keeps me busy, and the stretching sensation doesn't exactly help. Apart from that minor frustration the fight poses no challenge.

No challenge, until everything accelerates. For no reason. Allies and foes move twice as fast. Or am I twice as slow? And a shade approaches. I need to lift my swords. No time. Must dodge. No time either. Magic.

I fade-step through the demon, and everything goes back to its normal pace. My blade finishes the half-frozen creature that vanishes in a green mist, then I see the shimmering circle on the pavement, right where I was standing a second ago. In it, the few tufts of grass that sprout between the stones dance lazily, almost unaffected by the agitation of the battle. Other such circles appear here and there, some resembling the one that surprised me, others turning the world into a hasty blur.

The instant the last demon is vaporised, I crouch next to one of the anomalies, but it disappears before I can touch the ground. Blinding, crackling, the Herald's mark reaches toward the rift, a beam of green light shooting from it. All traces of the Fade are pulled back where they belong. The stretching ceases, the air becomes heavy. Really heavy.

"What… was that?" Confusion makes the Herald's voice crack. Strange, she's done that many times already, something must have changed.

"The Fade rift messed up time." Thanks to Hissrad's grunt, I don't need to ask what's wrong. He forces me to repress a smirk when he adds, "See, this is why my people get pissy about magic!"

"I think we could have skipped these things getting weirder, don't you?"

They both acquiesce vigorously at Varric's comment. The Herald is already so nervous I can taste it, and sadly for her it only worsens when a scout meets us on the other side of the gate. Sparks begin dancing around her when she learns that the rebel mages aren't expecting the Inquisition, then an elf approaches. She is positively boiling when he mentions a magister and the _former_ grand enchanter who supposedly invited her here.

Many eyes track our movements as we make our way to the village. Most follow me and Hissrad, but a handful focus solely on the Herald. As we reach the tavern's entrance, she notices one such group and waves at them, to which they answer by retreating hastily. This isn't the reaction she expected. The sparks double in intensity.

I step closer to press one hand against her back. "Do you need more time?" The electricity stings my skin up to my elbow.

"No." She clenches her fists and looks at me over her shoulder, frowning. "I'm fine."

That's a lie, her trembling lips give it away almost too easily, but the sparks do weaken. I'll have to find out who those people are, but not before we're back to camp, or on our way there at the very least. After a few deep breaths, the sparks are almost invisible. Which only lasts until we meet the grand enchanter in the tavern.

"Welcome, agents of the Inquisition. What has brought you to Redcliffe?"

The confusion on her face is real when the Herald reminds her of their meeting in Val Royaux. Her claim to have never seen her up close is true, as confirmed by the way she lets the Herald's forehead distract her every other second. Twitches around her jaw and eyes, as well as her fingers pulling on her sleeves, betray her discomfort, but not only because of the mark of Tranquility. I would bet my left hand that the humans in tevinter robes scattered among the patrons have something to do with it.

"The free mages have already… pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium." Well, at least she regrets it.

"Andraste's ass… I'm trying to think of a single worse thing you could have done. And I've got nothing." This time, I nod with the other two at Varric's remark.

I mean, there's desperate, and then there's that. No amount of insistence changes her mind. The Herald argues that the rebels can leave the Vints behind, the Inquisition will provide shelter after all, and the Breach might very well threaten Tevinter so fleeing there would delay the inevitable, nothing more. The tavern door opens, interrupting her increasingly high-pitched tirade.

"Welcome, my friends! I apologise for not greeting you earlier."

Hissrad and I utter the same growl at the sight of a magister and his son. The Herald shares our opinion of them, as proven by the little flames that sprout around her feet. With a discreet wave of the hand, I smother them under a bit of ice–no need to let her robes catch on fire. She doesn't notice, too busy commanding the older Vint to give her the mages. To my chagrin, he remains unbothered by her orders and invites her to sit at a table.

Wondering how much ice I can still create before my reserves run out, I watch them advance without a word. The way he looks at her makes my skin crawl, like she's a test subject However, before they can even pull their chairs, the magister's son comes stumbling behind them. He acts so well that, for an instant, I actually believe he is about to faint, but his feet lead him slightly too deliberately towards the Herald. I don't have time to fear for her life, he slips something in her hand and takes a step back almost immediately.

The negotiations end before they even begin. The magister forgets all appearances, pushing his son toward the door with the same expression Tama used to wear when I or her other kids got sick. Once he's gone, the Herald shows us a little piece of paper warning and summoning us to the village chantry. Not bad, for a Vint. Admitting that it's not a trap.

Trap or not, the Herald and I double our pace when we approach our destination; another rift is right here, inside the chantry. The doors close behind us, and I must resist the urge to slap myself to ensure I am indeed awake. Shaky shadows, green, black, transform the walls and pillars into unreal shapes, always changing, like the Fade. And the shimmering circles are back, as well as the stretching.

A mage–another Vint–disintegrates a shade with the blade of his staff and turns to us with a smile almost as unreal as the shadows. Emerald light pours all around him, a few beads of sweat shine on his dark skin, he spins his staff gracefully, effortlessly, his back straight and proud, and… and I seriously hope that Hissrad didn't see my mouth fall open as if I was a dying fish. It's been a while since anyone had that kind of effect on me, I'm pretty sure the rift caused it.

If he did notice, there is no time to mention it. More demons appear, we jump into the fight. I grab the opportunity to look more closely at the time-alering anomalies. At first, I suspect a simple manifestation of the Fade, but observing a bit of demon goo fly over one of the accelerating circles instills doubt in my mind. It's not speeding up, it's…

A wraith almost hits me in the face with a magical projectile while I'm distracted. I eliminate it with a winter's grasp, dodge another one's attack and kill it in the same way. Right before the Herald closes the rift, I put my hand on the ground, inside a slow circle, and compare this feeling to my memories of the Fade. It only lasts a second, but the difference is clear.

When I look up, the Vint is already inquiring about her mark. Oh no! No more looking at her like she's a test subject. I walk up to them and stand next to her like a proper bodyguard, imitated by Hissrad on the other side. The Vint, Dorian, keeps his air of confidence, but still takes a step back. Good. Good for me. A whiff of sweat and perfume has me drooling, I barely manage to keep my mouth shut.

"Watch yourself. The pretty ones are always the worst." For an instant, I believe that Hissrad's words are directed at me instead of the Herald. Shit, they might be. I haven't exactly been discreet.

The Vint laughs it off, then a shadow covers his eyes. After a quick explanation on how the magister used time magic to recruit the rebels before the Herald, we all display the same expression.

"That's insane!" Her fingers wiggle far too happily. "Time control has never been achieved! How could it?… The rift! Whatever spell has been used must be bringing Fade residue into this world and… and fusing the time irregularities inherent to dreams with…"

She theorises breathlessly until I intervene, "That's not it. The rift is a power source, nothing more." Of course that sparks her interest, as well as the Vint's, judging by his raised eyebrow and hesitant smile. Strangely enough, Hissrad's presence doesn't bother me as I share my observations. "The fast circles didn't accelerate whatever was in them, they skipped instants. Not sure about the slow ones, but it felt like being pulled backwards."

"That's not how it works in the Fade?"

"No. Not sure how to explain it with words." I still have to do it, or she might very well dislocate my shoulder if she keeps pulling this hard on my wrist. "The Fade is a constant reflection, it never predicts, so no skipping. Can't learn either, or remember, so no going backwards."

"That's a… peculiar way of presenting it, but yes."

At least the Vint got it. He completes my explanation with terms too technical for my taste, but the Herald soon nods and asks more questions. As she listens to him, wide eyed and wriggling like an impatient nug, the magister's son enters the chantry. A stronger wave of that mouth-watering smell hits me when Dorian walks past us to greet him.

When we finally leave, the Herald's mood has shifted yet again, bringing back the nervous sparks. Not that I blame her. I don't know how I'd react if time-altering cultists took an interest in me, and it's far from the only problem she has to deal with. Personally, I'm just glad to be outside, in the open air, away from that distracting smell and the heat of the residual magic.

The way back is mostly filled with her blabbering about time magic and the events to come. While she and Varric exchange hypotheses on the magister's motivations, I approach Hissrad who has been uncharacteristically silent since we left the village.

A stare is enough to make him speak. "It's weird to hear you talk about magic."

"We've been talking about it since I woke up from my fever."

"Can't exactly trust anything you say." That gets a smirk out of me, but he quickly adds, "You shouldn't be smiling. My next question is about Qal." My legs almost stop moving. "Did you kill him because he found out?"

I should have expected it, but I really, _really_ didn't want to remember it. The exhaustion of today's fights suddenly catches up to me, sending shivers in my spine and limbs. "Why ask now?"

"Don't try to distract me. Answer."

"You can't trust me, why bo–"

"_Answer_."

Not that I had much hope, but changing the subject is out of the question. Still, I detect no pulsing veins, no twitch in the jaw, no menacing growl, only regular steps that don't completely flatten the earth under them. A deep breath helps me push the words out.

"He attacked. I had a sword." Painful images resurface despite my best efforts, a scream, bared teeth, blood on my hands and arms. "It was a reflex." This mere thought weakens my knees, I slow down my pace slightly.

"Messing up your own shoulder with a spell and pretending he was Saarebas, that was also a reflex?"

Heat builds up in my chest, in my head. "There was an ice wall in the middle of the armory, what choice did I have?" I spit, angrier than desired.

"Telling the truth," he growls as if it was obvious.

The heat intensifies. He's probably pissing me off on purpose, just to see how I'll react. I'm too tired to care. "And then what?"

He averts his gaze. Did he obtain what he was looking for or has he become even more sentimental than I thought? Not that I'll ever find out. We don't exchange another word.

* * *

First of all, thank you for reading up to this point already, if this fic entertains you that's all I can really ask for.

That said, if you have the time I would love to know your thoughts. This is my first DA fic (plus my first story in English that's over 2k words) and I might be having fun writing it, but it would still make my day to know what others think of it, even if it's as simple as "I like it" or if it's to point out things that need improvement.

Anyway, thanks again and have a nice day!


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